Arrows of Time - Kim Falconer [28]
‘Doctor?’
‘Look it up in your Historical Pathology manual. Rales are bubbly lung noises heard on inspiration. Come listen. The pulmonary alveoli are filling with fluid.’
Hally listened with her stethoscope. ‘Pneumonia again?’ she asked. ‘From aspiration?’
‘It doesn’t make sense.’ He shook his head. ‘Sit her up and turn off the fluids. She’s drowning.’
‘It can’t be an infection,’ Hally said, clamping the intravenous drip. ‘She’s been irradiated.’ Her eyes went wide. ‘Unless it’s a new outbreak.’
‘What’s her temp?’
She switched the screen to an alternate diagnostic display. ‘Elevated again,’ she said. ‘Forty degrees Celsius.’
‘Cold packs, stat, and get some help. I want the temp down immediately. No convulsions this time.’
‘She’s like a teaching hospital’s dream, isn’t she, doctor? Everything that can go wrong…’
‘Just cool her down,’ Everett said, scribbling notes into the digital chart. He felt a prickle down his spine as he wrote.
‘Dr Kelly.’ A woman stuck her head in the room. ‘Do you have a minute?’
Everett cursed under his breath. Bad timing. He covered his patient’s chest and forced a smile as he waved the chief resident in. She was a small woman with a chiselled, porcelain face like an antique china doll, but her energy boomed out from her diminutive frame—loud, officious and intimidating.
‘Dr Snead,’ he said. ‘It’s a pleasure to see you.’
‘Don’t start by lying, Everett. I came to find out what you’re doing in here. I’ve heard rumours.’
‘I’m treating my patient,’ he said as he turned to watch the heart monitor. He felt his own pulse pounding along with the accelerated beats of his patient. He slipped the stethoscope under the sheet.
Hally and two other nurses lined the patient’s bare arms and legs with cold packs. The chief resident crossed the room with a clipped stride, stopping to read the digital displays.
‘What do you mean, rumours?’ he asked.
‘There was talk,’ she said, turning to the patient. She pulled back the sheet and sucked in her breath. ‘And I see it’s true.’ She pointed at the winged lion. ‘Explain that, will you, Dr Kelly?’
He cleared his throat. ‘They call them tattoos.’
‘Tattoos?’ She said the word as if it had a bad taste. ‘Who are they?’
‘Various ancient cultures. The original reference to this kind of body art is “tatuing”.’
‘Meaning?’
‘To make a mark.’
She raised her brows. ‘They certainly made their mark on her. Why was it done?’
‘No one knows for certain.’
‘Best guess?’
‘Perhaps it was a sign of membership or rank, connection to the clan.’
‘Clan?’
‘A cohesive group.’
She huffed.
‘Tattooing was most likely a sacred ritual, the body art symbolic of initiation of some kind. The artist possessed the skill to weave the spirit of the image into the body.’ He watched her face. ‘According to ancient traditions.’
‘Which ancient traditions?’
‘Pacific Islands, Egyptian.’
‘When?’
‘Five thousand BCE, or more.’
‘You’re not suggesting that’s where she got this work, are you, Dr Kelly?’
‘I’m not suggesting anything. I don’t know who did this, or where she comes from.’
Dr Snead flipped the sheet back and turned to Everett. ‘I didn’t come here to talk about ancient history.’
‘What, then?’
‘Admin’s been alerted. You’re working on a Jane Doe, Everett.’
‘Her identity is…’
‘Not on the chart.’ She crossed her arms. ‘Why not?’
Everett stalled, making notations on his digital file. ‘Hally, start her on gentacore-50, 500mg IV, t.i.d. and monitor her temp Q every fifteen minutes. I’ll be right back.’ He nodded to his nurse and ushered the chief resident out of the room. ‘She has no ID,’ he said, leaning in close.
‘Exactly. You know the rules, Dr Kelly. No ID, no treatment.’ When he didn